The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘You heard what Mr Parry said,’ the gunner shouted. ‘Anyone with so much as a broken pipe in his pocket will wish he had been blown to kingdom come before I’ve done with him.’

  ‘Mr Mollard and Mr Smith, if you please,’ the lieutenant called. ‘Get a pump up on deck. Learn how it operates.’

  The two midshipmen looked quizzically at each other.

  ‘Don’t just gawp, go do it.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Mollard said, pushing the young gentleman ahead of him as they headed down the companionway ladder to the waist, bewildered looks on both their faces.

  ‘Mr Mundy would you be so kind as to show these two gentlemen where the pump is, and I suggest you let them have a hand in operating it.’

  The sailing master grasped the lieutenant’s meaning and repressed the desire to smile.

  ‘Just don’t damp their spirits too much!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘And let me know when the powder and shot are all on board. I will inspect the magazine and powder room when you have everything stowed.’

  The gunner nodded, as he knuckled his forehead.

  From the cabin window, Oliver Quintrell could see nothing but sky and sea. As Elusive had no corner gallery windows his uninterrupted view was to the south only – to the choppy water of the English Channel. It was as if the fifty merchantmen and the naval vessels, anchored on her larboard side, did not exist. How good it was to be back at sea. Yet as the ship rolled and pitched, Oliver found the motion slightly uncomfortable. How different the sensation to that of a ship running before the wind; something he had not felt for quite some time. But it would not take him long to adjust.

  Sitting down on one of the upholstered chairs at his polished dining table, Quintrell nodded to himself. Never had the sea looked so sweet.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n,’ the steward said, poking his head unannounced around the door. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Coffee, Casson. A nice cup of coffee. Thank you. And would you pass word for Mr Sparrow, I would like to speak to him.’

  It was fifteen minutes before the carpenter knocked on the door.

  ‘Beg pardon, Capt’n. One of the shelves in the powder room broke and I had to shore it up. Didn’t dare put an ’ammer to a nail in there, so I lashed it up. Mark my words, it won’t shift now. It’s right nice and firm.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Sparrow, did you serve under Captain Bransfield on the Constantine?’

  ‘No, sir, I hear tell the carpenter went down with the ship. I served on Illustrious till she was lost in ’94, then seven years on the Calcutta station. If you’ll pardon me for saying, sir, I was hoping to get a higher rating with this warrant, but that didn’t happen and the letter from the Navy Board said I was to join Elusive. So here I am.’

  ‘We may all wish for a higher rate Mr Sparrow, but in times like these, we must be satisfied that at least we are afloat.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Capt’n, I’m not disappointed. It’ll be an honour to serve with you.’

  ‘Well, if you perform you duties well, I will add my recommendation for you to get a better rate with your next warrant.’

  ‘Thank you, Capt’n. I’d much appreciate a good word when the time comes.’

  ‘Early days yet, and it will be many months before we are back in Portsmouth. Tell me; are you a married man, Mr Sparrow?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three little ones. Two girls and a lad. But they’re grown up now. Brought up by their aunt they were as my missus died years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘No need be, Capt’n, they’re big enough to fend for themselves now.’

  The captain smiled politely.

  ‘Regarding the water level in the well – keep me informed should there be any significant increase at any time of the day or night. Do you understand?’

  ‘Aye, Capt’n.’

  ‘And what of the men assigned to you? Are they satisfactory?’

  The carpenter’s head wavered.

  ‘Speak freely, man. I’m not a mind reader.’

  ‘I have my reservations about the mates, and the man who claims he’s a carpenter has yet to prove it. But it’s early days yet.’

  ‘Indeed it is, Mr Sparrow, for all of us.’

  The carpenter nodded, screwing his hat around in his hand. ‘If that’s all Capt’n, I’d best get back, just in case they have any more problems below. I’d not like to see anyone swinging an ’ammer in the magazine.’

  Oliver Quintrell raised his eyebrows as the middle-aged man lifted his leathery knuckles to his forehead and closed the cabin door gently as he went out.

  ‘Boat, heading this way.’

  ‘Where away?’ Mr Parry called.

  ‘Three points off the starboard bow.’

  An officer, wearing his boat-cloak sat in the stern-sheets. His sea-chest which was resting in the bow, was taking a wetting from the spray. A hail from the boat indicated it was headed for the frigate.

  ‘Hands to sway up the dunnage,’ the bosun called. At the same time a rope ladder was rolled down over the side.

  ‘Come aboard, sir?’ the midshipman asked, as he stepped onto the deck. He tipped his hat to Mr Parry but ignored the other officers in similar uniforms to his own.

  ‘I had not been advised by the captain that the Admiralty was allocating any further officers to Elusive. Your name?’

  ‘Jeremy Nightingale. Midshipman.’ He proffered an envelope which had been concealed in the large pocket of the lining of his boat cloak.

  Parry looked at the familiar anchor seal outlined in the red sealing wax.

  ‘You realise we are sailing tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Wait here, Mr Nightingale.’ Mr Parry headed aft.

  Standing alone on the quarterdeck the newest crew member showed nothing of embarrassment and though the deck pitched and rolled his balance was as solid as the stays themselves. While some of the sailors studied him, Mr Tully acknowledged him in a friendly fashion then supervised as the bosun’s men lowered a net to the boat to collect the newest officer’s dunnage.

  ‘Come in!’ Oliver called. ‘Ah, Mr Parry?’

  ‘Midshipman just came aboard, Captain. Name of Nightingale. Were we expecting an additional officer?’

  ‘Not that I am aware. Perhaps he had requested a transfer from one of the other navy ships. I presume he presented his papers to you when he came aboard.’

  ‘I have them here.’

  While Oliver Quintrell read through the documents, the first lieutenant cast his eyes around the room. Since his previous visit the cabin had taken on the appearance of a gentleman’s habitation. A double line of books graced the shelves of the dark oak bookcase. From the condition of the leather they appeared to have been well read.

  Several open charts rested on the elegant dining table, a pair of carved ebony elephants serving as paper weights. Only five of the upholstered chairs remained at the table, the captain was sitting on the other at his writing desk. The locker beneath the stern windows where he had previously sat was decked with velvet cushions. The blue velvet matched the indigo of the chairs. A square of carpet which still shone with the sheen of Indian silk graced the centre of the floor.

  ‘These papers appear to be in order so if you are satisfied, Mr Parry, I suggest our new officer is accommodated in the midshipman’s berth. In due course I will speak to Mr Nightingale. It will be interesting to discover the level of his seamanship. Advise me, if you will?’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘And, Simon, would you care to join me for dinner this evening?’

  ‘Thank you, it will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Up you go,’ Mr Hazzlewood said, almost apologetically. ‘Mr Parry’s orders.’

  Apart from the old experienced midshipman, who had been given the duty of overseeing the punishment, there were few sailors on deck to witness the proceedings; most were in the waist playing cribbage or dominos, or just sucking on
empty pipes and gazing at the stars.

  ‘If you find yourself nodding, I suggest you take your neckerchief off and lash your leg to the rigging. Don’t want you falling off now do we, Mr Smith.’

  The young gentleman, little more than fourteen years old, looked anxious.

  Mr Tully found the punishment amusing. He doubted the Honourable Algernon Biggleswade Smythe even went to his bedroom alone at night and certainly not without a lamp to light his way. Climbing ratlines, which dissolved into the black night sky, would be something the young gentleman had never dreamed of, not even in his worst nightmares.

  ‘Up, now! Climb!’ Mr Hazzlewood ordered, ignoring the pleading glance and the line of wetness shining on the boy’s cheek. The wind would soon dry that. Fortunately the young gent’s new uniform had dried out after its encounter with the water pump earlier in the day.

  ‘You’ll be fine, it’s quite safe. You're in luck. There’s barely a breeze. Save your prayers till you’re sent up there when it’s a howling gale.’

  With that consolation in mind, Mr Smith started his climb looking down occasionally and not knowing if he was being threatened or encouraged by the wave of Mr Hazzlewood’s hand. Laying so close to the ratlines his buttons dragged on every single foot-rope as he climbed to the lubbers’ hole high above the deck.

  ‘Everything all right, Mr Hazzlewood?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Parry. Thank you, sir. Wasn’t expecting to see you on deck.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ the lieutenant admitted. ‘Noisy blighters those merchantmen. Kept me awake.’ Simon Parry looked across the water. Between Elusive and the Isle of Wight more than two hundred lanterns twinkled on gently swaying masts. Besides the sounds of drunken mirth and singing, the plaintive chords of an accordion and the scratchings of a fiddle drifted over the waters of

  St Helens Road. Running his eyes up the shrouds, the lieutenant was unable to see the young man who had disappeared through the lubbers’ hole at the futtocks.

  ‘Is Mr Smith up there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just gone aloft.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him, Mr Hazzlewood, but no mollycoddling. I understand his father is a cabinet minister and I wouldn’t like to send word to London that we lost his youngest son overboard on his first night at sea.

  ‘Aye aye, Mr Parry.’

  ‘Carry on Mr Hazzlewood.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.

  ‘Mr Hazzlewood! Mr Hazzlewood!’

  ‘Mr Smith, stop that noise. If you want to attract attention on the deck you call “Deck” or “Ahoy below.”’

  ‘Ahoy deck, Mr Hazzlewood.’

  ‘For goodness sake, what is it, Mr Smith? You cannot come down yet. It’s not even three bells.’

  ‘I can see a small boat and someone on board is waving. I think he is trying to attract attention.’

  ‘Where away?’

  ‘There,’ cried the young gentleman. But the direction in which his arm was pointing was lost amongst the tangle of shadows and rigging.

  ‘Where?’ called the midshipman. ‘I need proper directions. Stem? Stern? Starboard? Beam?’

  ‘A bit to starboard of the stem. It’s coming right at us.’

  The midshipman on deck turned to one of the sailors. ‘You there, get up top and see what that young idiot is talking about. And you – go wake whoever is supposed to be on watch in the bow. If you find a man asleep I’ll have his name and report him to the lieutenant.’

  In less than a minute a cry came from the mast. ‘Deck there. Two points off the starboard bow. Small boat. One man aboard. No sail or oars that I can see. He’s hailing and drifting in this direction. He’ll hit us broadside on if he holds his course.’

  By this time the men of the watch and a few others had gathered on the deck.

  ‘Just as well it’s not a fire ship!’ one said.

  ‘That’s enough of that talk, Smithers,’ said Mr Parry, as he approached. ‘Mr Hazzlewood, pass word to the captain – small boat approaching!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You men, ready with lines and grapples but do nothing till you get the order.’

  The calls on deck drew others from the mess to investigate what was happening.

  Oliver Quintrell joined his lieutenant. ‘What do we have Mr Parry?’

  ‘Boat, sir. Seems to be adrift. Floating this way. I have the men ready with lines.’

  ‘How many crew?’

  ‘Just one. And he’s half naked.’

  ‘And if he don’t sit down, he’s liable to tip himself out the way he’s got it swaying,’ a voice from the rigging remarked.

  From the deck, the boat, bobbing on the choppy water, was barely visible in the darkness, but the man’s bare torso reflected the ghostly pallor of the rising moon.

  ‘Your orders, Captain?’

  Oliver scanned the sea around them checking that there were no other suspicious or unwanted craft nearby. But the only vessels in the vicinity were the merchant ships and all their small boats were stowed. ‘If it rubs up against us – fish it out, Mr Parry. Another jolly-boat may come in handy. And when you get the man aboard, enter his name in the muster book. Our first prize of the cruise it would seem,’ he joked. ‘Let me know when you have the boat secured on deck.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  ‘Look lively you men. Ready with the grapples. And try not to sink it.’

  ‘Look what I reeled in!’ shouted one of the seamen. ‘I caught me a fish.’

  ‘Quiet there, Froyle. You men get the boat hoisted and get that man something to wear.’

  Bare feet pattered across the deck. The ship’s timbers creaked. It was a mild night and the late summer breeze had dropped to almost nothing. Across the water the fleet of seventy ships lolled lazily from their anchor cables. Moonlight reflected off every cap, plate and metal fitting and the waters of

  St Helens Road twinkled beneath a thousand dancing lights. As Will Ethridge climbed aboard, a blanket was flung around his shoulders. He shook uncontrollably – not only from the chill of his journey, but from his growing fear and apprehension. It was not the ship or his predicament which concerned him but the anguish he knew his mother would be suffering. With little hope of an immediate return home, he was angry with himself for getting into such a situation. Moments later, his small wooden craft was hoisted on board and flipped over. Will watched in silence as the salt water which had seeped into its hull washed across the deck and was returned to the sea through the scuppers.

  ‘Handy little boat,’ the bosun said.

  ‘Who’d ya pinch it off?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘Fancied yourself as a tar, did you?’

  ‘A pair of oars might have come in handy!’ Froyle added.

  ‘He don’t need oars. He’s got long arms.’

  The men’s joshing stopped when Mr Hazzlewood walked over. ‘Shut your traps all of you. What’s your name lad?’

  ‘Will, sir. William Ethridge.’

  ‘And where have you come from, Willie lad?’

  ‘Buckler’s Hard.’

  And where’s that when it’s out?’

  ‘Beaulieu River, sir, and I’ve got to get back there and take the boat back.’

  ‘Pinched it, did you? Felon is you? Do you know what they do with thieves on a ship, lad? They hang ’em from the yard arm by their fingers, then they cut ’em off one by one, and when the last one goes – splash!’

  ‘One more word from you, Smithers and you’ll be taking your turn at the gratings! Don’t take no notice of him, lad.’

  Will’s face was white in the moon’s glow.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad, we’ll get you fixed up with some clothes and a hammock and show you where you can sleep.’

  ‘But I’ve got to get back to Buckler’s Hard.’

  ‘Buckler’s Hard,’ whispered Smithers to one of the other men. ‘Only thing that’s hard on here is hard tack and he’ll get more of that than he bargained for in the next few months.’

  The midshipman did no
t hear the comment.

  ‘My mother will be worried stiff,’ Will said. ‘When will I be allowed to go home?’

  Smithers smirked at his mate. ‘I reckon if he’s lucky in five or six year’s time. Depending on what the Frogs decide to do. It could be longer. You could try swimming home if you wanted but the penalty for running is they hang you.’

  ‘I said shut your mouth, Smithers. Don’t you take no notice of what he says, Willie lad. Here take a sup of this.’ Mr Hazzlewood handed him a steaming pot that had been sent up from the galley.

  Will poured the contents down his throat without hardly swallowing or tasting it. The events which had taken place that morning at the shipyard seemed like days ago. ‘Thank you,’ he said, gazing up to the rigging above his head.

  ‘I bet you have never stood on a ship like this before, lad.’

  ‘I have that. I’ve stood on the weather deck of a man-of-war.’

  Everyone went quiet and the smile disappeared from Mr Hazzlewood’s face. ‘Well, you’re certainly no sailor and I don’t take kindly to liars.’

  ‘I’m not lying, sir. I come from Buckler’s Hard. That’s where they build ships like this and some even bigger. I’ve seen them grow from the keel up. I’ve worked on them. Helped build them. I’ve put the planks on them. Seen the figureheads carved. I’ve hammered thousands of trunnels in decks far bigger than this. But I ain’t never been aboard a fully rigged ship before.’

  ‘Well, now you are here, you’ll find there’s no way of going back. How old are you Will, lad?

  ‘Near twenty-one, sir.’

  ‘And what do you do when you’re not trying to navigate a boat?

  ‘I’m apprenticed to Mr Edward Adams, Master Shipwright at Buckler’s Hard.

  ‘You’re a chippie’s lad then.’ Mr Hazzlewood turned to the group of seamen. ‘You, Froyle, be useful, go tell Mr Sparrow to come up on deck. Tell him we’ve got a new chippie aboard.’

  ‘Enter.’

  After removing his hat, the midshipman attempted to straighten his hair. As he entered the captain’s cabin his eyes darted covetously around the room though his head did not move an inch.